


bright eyes

by kaijusnowglobe



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Cardverse, M/M, More characters to come, Slow Burn, modern cardverse au, more tags to come????
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-19 10:27:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29749119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijusnowglobe/pseuds/kaijusnowglobe
Summary: Alfred F. Jones, an aimless New York nobody, is thrown into a life of fame and royalty when the mark of Spades appears on him. Arthur Kirkland, the soon-to-be Queen and current Prince of Spades in England, is not pleased.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 44





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> trying something new! i usually don't write cardverse, and when i read it, it's usually cardverse in a middle-earth type environment (which i love!) but i wanted to explore what cardverse would look like in the modern world. hope you guys like it! i figured i wanted the prologue to be its own chapter because i didn't want the first chapter to be too long...

**3 years ago**

It had been a slow night, Alfred Jones thought. He stood behind the bar of the high-end Manhattan establishment wiping down glasses absently. With the mellow pop playing at a soft volume above him, he had expected the rest of the night to go smoothly. He checked the time for what must have been the fourth time that hour and sighed. It was always worse when it was slow like this, the time somehow passed even more slowly, agonizingly-- 

And then Alfred’s silent prayers were answered when one of their hostesses sat a table of five, and he looked them over from his place across the room. Four big men in suits, flanking a smaller man, and he zeroed in on the smaller guy. They looked the same age, maybe. The man had a messy blonde head of hair, thick brows that seemed to be in style now, a sharp jaw, and Alfred guessed the three-piece suit that the blonde was wearing was worth a lot more than any suit he would ever wear in his life. The blonde was kind of cute, if he was being honest. 

He got their order minutes later after sneaking a few more glances at the table. Four waters, and one gin and tonic, strong, apparently. He whipped it all up quickly, flourishing the gin and tonic with a finger more of gin, and brought it over. 

“Four waters, and a G & T,” Alfred announced, dishing out the glasses. The blonde looked up at him as he put the glass down, and Alfred was struck by the green of his eyes. “Thank you, mate.” The blonde mumbled, and Alfred heard the man’s accent. British, too. Cute and British, he thought, flashing the man a polite smile. The top buttons of the man's shirt were unbuttoned, and Alfred swore he saw the tip of a black tattoo stretching across his collarbone. “No problem, sir. Enjoy.” And Alfred walked off, thinking nothing of it as he tried to imagine more of the tattoo peeking out from under the Brit's shirt, lower, and lower. He stopped himself before his mind's eye went _too_ low, glancing back at the man as he went behind the bar.

However, in the middle of Alfred trying very dutifully to organize the bar's liquor bottles by spirit and color, all hell broke loose. 

Alfred had heard some louder commotion as one of the big men seemed to call over their hostess, and his head snapped up when he heard the Brit talking again. “The bartender, I’d like to speak to him,” Alfred heard him say, and he took that as his cue to get over there as fast as possible. He walked back over, curious about it all, and waved a hand. 

“Hi, yeah, that’s me. What can I do for you?” 

The Brit looked up at him again, pushing the half full glass away. It vaguely reminded Alfred of a petulant child who didn't want to eat his vegetables, which, upon thinking about it, was much like this situation. “You made this?”

“Yeah.”  
  
“It tastes like dog shit.” 

Alfred had had his share of rude customers, but it had been so long since he had gotten one of _these_ types, as outrageous as they were. Alfred hadn’t realized how long he had been standing there, stunned by the statement, and he nodded, though he was sure the confusion was still written on his face. He was one of their better bartenders. There was no way the drink was _that_ bad. “Would you like me to remake it for you?” 

The Brit’s eyebrows furrowed, and he seemed to consider the notion. “Unless you’re about to remake the worst gin and tonic I’ve ever had, no, that won’t be necessary.” Alfred gave another polite smile.

“Right. So sorry about that. What can I get you instead, sir?” Alfred asked, lifting the abandoned drink from the table. 

“Martini. No olives.” 

“Shaken, not stirred?” Alfred tried to joke, to no avail. British people liked James Bond, right? The big men sitting around the Brit seemed to pity the American in that moment. The smaller man, Eyebrows, tilted his head, expression turning sour, and Alfred felt a sick sense of gratification for sufficiently pissing off his customer; customer service be damned. 

“You think you’re clever. How clever can you be when you work in a shithole like this?” 

"A shithole, really? And you came anyway?" The American fired back, his voice low. Never mind his degree in physics, right?

Alfred pursed his lips and looked around. An almost empty restaurant, one bored hostess up front, a few cooks in the back, a busboy sitting around. Why not? His hand clenched around the sweating cocktail glass in his hand. “I’m gonna level with you, man. Obviously, you’re hot shit. I get that. Fine. But if you’re such hot shit, what do you _possibly_ get out of talking to people like that, dude?” The men sitting around the Brit seemed to bristle, shifting in their chairs. Alfred didn't mind; he had been in plenty bar fights, anyway, whether starting or stopping them. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you better watch yourself, or you’re gonna get some spit in your drink.” 

Alfred turned on his heel to make the next drink, before changing his mind and pivoting back to the table. “And another thing,” he put the glass back down on the table with a loud _clink_. “You can wear those nice suits n’ all, but you’re not cute when you talk shit.” The Brit’s lips parted as if he was about to say something, and then Alfred noticed a smirk creeping in on the other’s pale, freckled face.

“Just saying. Jessica,” he called the hostess over suddenly. “Take this table. Martini. No olives. Shaken.” And he walked off to take a step outside. An hour later, Alfred went to collect the check from the table, and his eyes went wide. 

A four-hundred dollar tip. He stared at it for a long moment. 

That hot British asshole was going to pay the rest of Alfred’s rent, and he couldn’t stand it. 


	2. chapter one

**today**

Alfred woke up on his brother’s futon, rubbing at his eyes. His gazed blearily at the television across the room. He must have fallen asleep watching the nature channel again. His third week of being unemployed was getting bleaker and bleaker by the second, he realized, rubbing at his scruffy chin. A noise from the kitchen drew his attention, and he saw Matthew in the midst of his morning routine. “Morning, sunshine,” Matthew chirped, pouring a second cup of coffee for his brother. 

While Al wasn’t a morning person by any means, Matthew’s morning positivity had been his lifeline for the last few weeks. “Morning,” he groaned, grabbing the full mug. 

“You know the King of Spades died?” Matthew said. The Spades Royal Family in England, and all of the drama surrounding it, was one of his recurring fascinations, along with millions of others in America. While Alfred knew his brother was a hard-driving day trader in his work, he also knew his brother’s guilty pleasures, and this was one of them. (Also, more celebrity gossip and shitty reality shows, which Alfred would admit to partaking in once in a while.) 

“That so?” 

“Yeah, it’s all over Twitter.” 

“You know I’m not big on that stuff,” Alfred said with a sip of his coffee, eyeing the living room for a spare shirt of his on the floor which had essentially become his laundry basket, too. 

“He was _ninety-nine_!” 

“Old motherfucker,” Al snorted and put his coffee down, moving across the room to pick up a shirt from the floor. Matthew scrolled on his phone in one hand, coffee in the other. “Wonder what they’re gonna do now. The Ace of Spades is the current Queen, so they’re gonna have to step down, but no King… and the Prince doesn’t have a King yet either? It’s such a mess, everyone’s talking about it.” Matt thought aloud. 

“Everyone, huh?” Alfred teased, throwing the new shirt over his head. Though Alfred didn’t notice, Matthew looked over at his brother then. “Hey, what’s that?” 

“What’s what, man?” Alfred asked, and he stood there as Matt put his phone down and walked over to him, a joking expression on his face. “Did you get a tattoo?” 

“What’re you talking about?” Alfred laughed, utterly confused by the question. Matt lifted up his brother’s shirt with his free hand, exposing Alfred’s ribs, and on his left side, just under his chest, there it was. 

“That.” Matthew prodded at Al’s side, and the other looked down at the said tattoo. A single spade, as large as his palm, etched into his skin as if it had been there all his life. The shape of the spade seemed to have some sort of language inscribed around its outline that he couldn’t read from his angle.

“What the fuck,” Alfred muttered, his confusion intensifying, growing into something more shocked, “is that?” 

“Alfred, do you really not know what this is? Like, you’re not messing with me right now?” Matthew asked his brother, a more serious expression on his face. Al looked at the mark again. “No, I don’t know, you know I’ve never gotten a tattoo, I hate needles, and I-- I’ve never seen this in my life, Matt, I have no clue,” Alfred went on, growing somewhat frantic, tearing his eyes away from the mark. For some reason, he couldn’t bear to look at it. It filled him with some sort of terrible feeling, a certain type of anxiety he knew wouldn’t be easy to shake.

“I have.” Matt interrupted his brother’s quickly spiraling train of thought. Alfred noticed the caution in his tone. “What is it?” He asked, searching for the answer in his brother’s face.

“It’s the mark of the Spades, the-- the royal family. It’s them. It’s for members of the… their family. They all have one,” Matthew spat out, albeit regretfully as if the knowledge was forbidden. 

“I don’t understand, Matt, I’m-- I’m not them, I’m just me,” Alfred uttered quietly, sorrow tinging his words. He felt a deep breath rattle through his body, and he felt Matthew lean forward to pull his brother into a tight hug, squeezing Alfred so tight he thought his windpipe might collapse. 

“It’ll be fine, alright? It’ll be okay,” Matthew sighed, “We won’t tell anybody, we won’t show anybody, nobody has to know.” Alfred pulled away, nodding, running a hand through his blonde hair, the tried and true method to calm himself down. “And we’re having drinks with Gil and Tony later,” Matt continued, that chipper tone coming into his voice again, and Alfred considered himself only slightly ore soothed. “We’re going to have a good time and forget about all this tonight. Sound good?” 

“Perfect,” Alfred sighed again, the relief hitting him then upon the mention of their friends. “I’ll meet you there.” He tried to smile at his brother as he went out the door, and failed spectacularly once Matthew had actually left. A quiet moment to himself, Alfred stood, letting the cool morning light of New York wash over him. It wasn’t enough to keep his mind from racing. What was it? Well, Alfred  _ knew _ what it was, it was a mysterious tattoo-mark-thing, in that  _ shape _ . What did it mean? This was what stopped Alfred in his tracks completely; it was impossible to wrap his mind around it. It couldn’t have meant what Matthew was saying. It had to be a prank, something, but Matthew was as shocked as he was. It was  _ impossible _ . There were no other words for it.

And yet, here the goddamn thing was, burned into his skin. 

* * *

Donned in a freshly washed flannel, his favorite bomber jacket, jeans and boots, Alfred hoped he looked like a new man and radiated confidence he didn’t exactly have. He met his brother, Tony, and Gil at some new joint on 48th Street, and were well into their drinking by the time he had gotten there. 

“Hey,  _ mijo, _ ” Tony greeted warmly, pulling Al into his second hug of the day, and Gil followed, mumbling something like “you big bastard, get over here,” and Al had laughed, relieved. He had met the friendly off-and-on couple during his time at Columbia, fast friends they were, and bonded over how horrible one of their shared general education classes was; the rest was history. 

Comfortable small talk ensued, inside jokes about Matthew being another cog in the Wall Street machine and hysterical laughter brought some attention to their table that Al didn’t really mind. After the terror of the morning, the normalcy was welcome, and Al sighed after downing his fourth shot of the night with everyone else. As they put their shot glasses down, Tony shuddered, exhaling. “How’s the job search going?” He asked gently, the tequila settling in. 

Alfred couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes, and he gave an empty sort of laugh. “I’m gonna need another drink if’m gonna talk about that, man.” He snorted, and Gil gestured to the waitress for another round. Alfred felt his brother’s hand clap his back, a meaningful micro-expression of comfort, and gave the rest of the table a weak smile.

It was another thing Alfred couldn’t wrap his mind around. He had graduated  _ magna cum laude _ from Columbia with a physics degree. He kept going, kept moving, got a full ride to Columbia’s graduate program with a full ride to study chemical physics. Somewhere in between, the bright-eyed student had lost steam somewhere. He didn’t know when, or why, really, but it had hit him like a brick wall: disenchantment, depression, disillusionment. Why toil endlessly at school when he could just drop out and bartend, make good money that way for the rest of his life? No matter how stuck he felt, he could always take comfort in the fact that he could make people happy with good drinks and a shoulder to cry on, somebody for them to listen to. It spoke to his heart, Alfred knew, to make people as happy as he could. He was smart, sure, but he always felt smarter behind the bar. And then he had blown up at the wrong customer at the exact wrong time and was let go, the liability he apparently was. 

So here he was, Alfred thought with a sigh, before downing what was his fifth-sixth?-fifth shot. 

“Holy shit, have you guys heard about this shit with the Spades family?” Gil started, and Al coincidentally found something very interesting to look at across the room. Tony gasped, nodding into his glass of wine. “Insane! Absolute insanity." 

“I was just telling Al this morning! It’s a huge mess,” Matt said, moving in his chair to lean his back against the wall, and Al stayed silent as he looked at the menu. He saw the gin and tonic, and he smiled softly, thinking of a memory from one of the last bars he worked at. 

“They need a King now, don’t they?” Tony asked softly, slight concern in his words, always so caring about everyone. “I thought it was supposed to be Prince Arthur,” Gil said with a sip of his beer and laughed.  "Arthur's next in line to be Queen. Just need a King now." Matthew corrected quietly, and Tony hummed in acknowledgement.

“That guy’s hot," Gil went on before leaning onto the table as if he was about to share a dirty secret. "You know there are people who get tattoos and shit to, like, try and be royalty?” 

Alfred looked up then, intrigued. “Really?” He slurred. “Oh, yeah, I’ve seen a couple of ‘em at the gym.” Gil nodded, leaning back and throwing his pale arm around Tony’s shoulders, who snuggled up into the gesture. 

“Why would someone do that?” Alfred mumbled, trying as hard as possible to seem more disinterested than he actually was. Gil seemed to think it was all so funny, drunken laughter bubbling in his throat. “Who wouldn’t want to be royalty?” Gil snorted. 

“Right.” Alfred nodded back at Tony and Gil, as cozy as they looked, feeling a little dizzy. 

* * *

Matthew and Alfred stumbled out of their taxi, stepping towards the curb. “You’re quiet,” Matt mumbled in the other’s direction, digging in his pocket for his key. 

“Long day.” Al gave a loose thumbs-up and heard the scan of Matt’s key fob as he opened the door. “Fuckin’ shit, dude,” Alfred started, laughing, breathless. “The elevator’s broken.” Alfred pointed, and Matt groaned loudly. He ran a hand down his face and laughed along with his brother in disbelief. 

“Alright, four flights,” Matthew snickered, grabbing onto Al, who was already seeing double, the alcohol settling like a tar pit in his stomach. “Shit. Shit,” Alfred complained as they trekked the few stairs, and Matt shook his head. “Why are there so many?” 

Alfred griped again, wordlessly, and lost his footing on the stairs in a matter of seconds. Matthew, too slow and too intoxicated for the entire scenario, heard the sickening crack of his brother’s arm as his elbow hit the step under them hard. Alfred flopped down to the bottom of the stairs, Matthew watching as his brother seemed to be drunk enough to start laughing about it before he started crying.    
  
“Shit,” Matt muttered and slipped out his phone, sobering up much more quickly than he appreciated. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slow-ish (?) start, i know, but bear with me! :'-)


	3. chapter two

Al stirred as he was placed in his hospital bed, the drunk-sleep induced confusion about where he was ebbing away within a moment. “Matt?” He called, eyes squinting, and his brother stepped forward. “Hey,” he waved, handing Al his glasses. “We got off the ambulance a few minutes ago. Guess you wanted to take a little nap afterward,” Matt chuckled a tired laugh. 

It was then that Al attempted to move around, and he winced immediately, pain shooting up his right arm like a wave of needles. He noticed how swollen his arm looked in the long-sleeved shirt he was wearing, and let out a breath through his clenched teeth. “You broke your arm,” Matt said, quick, “don’t move, the doctor’s gonna be here soon.” 

“Your bedside manner’s awesome, Matt,” Alfred groaned, throwing his head back onto the pillow. His head was killing him, too. And these hospital lights made him want to gouge his corneas out with a fork. In the back of his mind, he figured this would at least make for a funny story in a few months.

The brothers sat in a comfortable silence, Alfred in immense pain and Matthew trying not to fall asleep in his still-slightly-drunk state. When the doctor, an older man, and a young nurse with a small cart finally arrived, Alfred sighed in relief. 

“Alright, Mr. Jones, broken arm?” The doctor asked, checking his charts before looking over.

“Feels like it.” Al responded, his tone flat. “We’re gonna have to get rid of the shirt, if you don’t mind, for the cast…” The doctor said quietly, eyes expectant. 

“Oh,” Alfred breathed, realizing. His shirt. A button-up. He would have to take the whole thing off. But the mark--it would be fine, right, if it was just a tattoo? Gil had said people were getting them. Alfred and Matt shared a grave look. Al swore he saw a flash of panic across his brother’s face, an interruption of his usually calm demeanor.

“Mr. Jones?” The doctor asked, getting his feeble attention. “Yeah? Yeah. Sorry, yeah,” Alfred nodded, and Matt had come over to help the doctor get his brother out of the flannel, the sleeve with the broken arm needing to be cut off, partly, due to its swollen state. That had been one of his favorite shirts, too. 

This day just kept getting better and better. 

The doctor gave Alfred’s arm a look, examining. “Closed fracture in right forearm, we’ll need to sedate the patient and set it. Simple enough,” The nurse across the room nodded, preparing the medication for sedation. “Maybe set up a B-12 drip for the patient, too. Get rid of that hangover. I understand the incident took place when you were both intoxicated?” There was a slight hint of judgment in the doctor’s voice that Alfred quickly decided he didn’t care for. 

He nodded then, slightly ashamed. Matthew looked like he was on the edge of his seat, eyeing Alfred’s mark. The doctor moved away and grabbed his clipboard. “What color cast would you like, Mr. Jones?” The nurse had caught Alfred off guard then, and he winced again as he felt a needle go into his arm, to which the nurse mumbled a quiet, kind apology. 

“Um, sorry, color?” Alfred repeated, squinting at the doctor despite having his glasses on. 

“Yes.” 

“Oh, uh,” Alfred started, already getting groggy, a warm feeling running through him. He wasn’t peeing himself, was he? “Red. Blue. Surprise me,” he attempted to say, the words sounding strange in his mouth as he felt more relaxed than he had moments before. The doctor chuckled again. “Oh, and Mr. Jones?” 

“Uh-huh?”

“You know, if you don’t mind me saying, I’ve seen a lot of so-called Spades marks in my time… this one looks very authentic, with the latin and all.” 

“Latin?” Alfred exhaled before his head fell back onto the pillow in a state of sedated bliss. Matthew cut in. “He went to… a really good guy. Up in, uh, in Brooklyn.” He smiled weakly, hoping the answer would suffice. Instead, the doctor gave him a long look, before writing down one last thing and leaving. Matthew gave his sleeping brother one last glance, a bit more soothed by the fact that his brother wouldn’t be in pain for some while; perfect time to grab a coffee, he supposed, with Alfred out like a light. He closed the hospital room door behind him. The wheels of Matthew’s mind sputtered and turned, powered by a burgeoning anxiety that already felt overpowering. 

* * *

When Alfred woke up for what felt like the fourth time in the last eighteen hours, he put his glasses on with his good hand. He blinked at the sight of a well-dressed man sitting on the pale green leather couch next to Matt across the room. “Hi, Al,” Matt said sheepishly. 

“What’s—what’s this?” Alfred blinked again, a bit woozy. He looked down at his arm. A blue cast on his left arm, still in massive pain. Great. 

The well-dressed man stood, and Al’s eyes flitted back across the room. “Mr. Jones, allow me to introduce myself,” Alfred giggled at the man’s British accent. “Please do,” he gave Matt a look, smiling, out of it, the anesthesia only somewhat wearing off. Even in his haze, Alfred noticed Matt did not smile back. 

“I’m Mr. Rutherford, one of the ambassadors to the Spades Embassy here in New York City.” 

“Oh, _fuck_ , is this about the… the thing?” Alfred couldn’t stop himself from saying it, and now Matt seemed to break, hiding his chuckle from across the room. Mr. Rutherford, however, didn’t seem much taken aback. Thankfully, he looked more amused by the situation at hand. “Yes, unfortunately, I am here about the… _thing._ As it were. We received a report of the possible appearance of a real Spades mark.” 

Matt held up a hand, the small laugh he had let out earlier long forgotten now. “From who? The doctor? Isn’t that a HIPAA violation?” He asked then, his tone critical, protective. 

Mr. Rutherford looked at Matthew, a small smile on his face. “We’ve no interest in Mr. Jones’ medical records,” he started. Even in the haze Alfred was barely starting to come out of, he could hear the unsaid ‘ _yet’_ in the man’s words. “Technically, we are interested in a more _cosmetic_ matter at hand.” 

“What if we don’t _care_ that you’re interested?” Matthew’s words seemed to cut through the bullshit seamlessly, and Alfred let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. His whole body felt like aching stone, as still as he was. 

“Mr. Williams, was it?” Mr. Rutherford turned to Matthew. “I understand your trepidation, sir, believe me. But if you would allow me to ask your brother a few questions regarding the issue, and I determine the mark to be another fabrication, as popular as they seem to be, then I can be on my merry way.” 

Alfred saw the look on Matthew’s face. He was chewing his cheek, like he always did when he was nervous, stressed about something. Alfred bit his own lip, weighing the pros and cons as articulately as he possibly could, but not nearly as fast as he needed to. 

“Gentlemen, do you really think I would like to be standing here at four in the bloody morning?” Mr. Rutherford broke the silence, a hint of undeniable exasperation in his voice. 

Al, as exhausted and desperate and thirsty and _exhausted_ as he was, gave a long sigh. “Sure. Whatever, shoot.” 

“Right then,” Mr. Rutherford started once more, sitting next to Matthew on the hospital couch. He brought out a small pad of paper from a pocket on the inside of his jacket, a pen at the ready. With the click of his pen, he began his interrogation. “Let’s go down the ‘tattoo’ route, shall we? When did you get it?” 

Alfred stared back at Mr. Rutherford. He hadn’t thought about any of this, any kind of story, it had all happened too fast. “A few days ago. Um… last week, I guess.” He found himself saying, though the words felt outside of himself. 

“Your brother mentioned Brooklyn to the physician. Which shop? We’ll have to give another citation for tattooing fraudulent Spades’ marks.” Of all the times Alfred had walked through Brooklyn all these years, and he couldn’t remember a single tattoo shop. He could already feel the sweat pooling at his temples. Alfred swallowed, his throat impossibly dry, refraining from answering the question. He watched as Matthew chewed the inside of his cheek harder across the room. He could practically hear the skin being ground between Matthew’s teeth, and his head throbbed as he became disgusted by the thought, it was all too much, _way_ too much, how was this happening—

Mr. Rutherford gave what sounded like a long suffering sigh. “You know what I find strange, Mr. Jones,” he finally said, “is that in all of the investigations of counterfeit Spades marks I’ve done…” Alfred felt his stomach drop. “I’ve never once seen someone try to convince me that the mark is actually a tattoo. Rather the opposite.” 

The three men sat with those words in silence for a long moment. For a second, Alfred thought his heart might have actually stopped, but the heart monitor beeped in rapid tones next to him. 

“May I see it?” Mr. Rutherford asked, and Alfred bit his lip. His eyes drifted to the sole window in the room, black night encompassing everything. Nowhere to hide. He could feel his heart rattling in his chest, and he realized the weight of this moment, somehow. Time seemed to slow down altogether, and he looked back at Mr. Rutherford. He had no idea what possessed him to say what he did next, destiny, perhaps (although he didn’t know it). 

“Yes.” Alfred swallowed, using his better arm to pull the blankets down to his waist. “Al, don’t,” Matt said, his voice heavy, but it went unheard.

Mr. Rutherford stood then, coming to the side of Alfred’s bed to gaze at the mark on the American’s ribs. Alfred closed his eyes, not wanting to look at the man’s face as he felt his mark was appraised. 

“My Gods,” Mr. Rutherford said far too quietly for Al’s comfort, and he opened his eyes. Mr. Rutherford was as white as a ghost. “There it is,” he said, the disbelief in his voice stark. “No,” Alfred shook his head, the denial settling in like a storm cloud in his mind.

“Yes,” Mr. Rutherford countered, quick as a whip, “The latin around the spade, here. _Audentis fortuna iuvat…_ fortune favors the brave. _”_

“No,” Alfred repeated, desperate, pulling the blanket over his mark. Mr. Rutherford pocketed his pad of paper, the cool smile from earlier coming back. 

“Mr. Jones,” Mr. Rutherford’s voice was calm, much more accepting than Al wanted to hear. “I apologize greatly, but it’s you.” 

“No! No,” Alfred raised his voice, “you don’t understand, sir, I can’t—it’s—look, I’m not _royal_ or, or—whatever it is, all I am is a guy, I’m _nothing_ , okay? This isn’t who I am, it’s not who I’m _going_ to be, it’s—please, I’ll—can’t it be someone else? Please? There has to be _somebody_ else, right? It can’t, it can’t be _me_ , I don’t even live over there, please,” He stopped himself too late, the tears muddling his face. “Please, you can’t. This is my home. This is where I belong, I’m not meant to—to be that, please, can’t you just,” he begged, breathless, and Alfred didn’t care how uncomfortable Mr. Rutherford looked, shoulders tense. “Just keep it a secret? Please? I’ll pay you, I’ll do anything, what do you want?” he tried. Matthew’s head was in his hands.

The pity on Mr. Rutherford’s face was crystal clear. A moment passed as he seemed to weigh his words carefully. 

“Like I said," Rutherford started, "fortune favors the brave, your majesty.” Alfred sat there, blue eyes staring back at the Spades ambassador. _Your majesty._ Alfred wanted to spit the words back at him, reject it completely, go back in time, anything. 

With that, Mr. Rutherford straightened his jacket, stepping to the door. “Arrangements will be made, authorities notified,” he continued. Arrangements? Authorities? What did that mean? Alfred felt like he had been hit by a truck. What was he, a criminal? 

Matthew seemed to have the same thought. “Authorities? Who?” He asked sharply, his eyes wide. 

“The BBC, the administrators of the Spades Family. The Prince. Their Ace, acting Queen of Spades.” Rutherford replied, too nonchalant. Matthew gawked at the Brit, questions still written all over his face as Rutherford made his way across the room to the door.

“I recommend you pack a bag, Mr. Jones. You’re heading to London. We’ll be in touch.” And with that, the man was gone, and the brothers in quiet disarray, their lives changed irreversibly so. 


End file.
